


I Need This

by ScribeFigaro



Category: InuYasha - A Feudal Fairy Tale
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 17:12:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17268113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeFigaro/pseuds/ScribeFigaro
Summary: A Secret MiroSanta gift for geldris/Brooke for MiroSanta2018Prompt: Angsty war time death talks/fearsRecommended soundtrack is R.E.M.'s album Out of Time, particularly the tracks "Low," "Belong," "Half a World Away," and most of all, "Country Feedback."





	I Need This

**Author's Note:**

  * For [geldris](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=geldris).



_A Secret MiroSanta gift for geldris/Brooke_

_Prompt: Angsty war time death talks/fears_

Recommended soundtrack is R.E.M.'s album _Out of Time_ , particularly the tracks "Low," "Belong," "Half a World Away," and most of all, "Country Feedback."

  
  


_This flower is scorched._  
_This film is on -_  
_On a maddening loop._  
_These clothes ..._  
_These clothes don't fit us right_  
_And I'm to blame._  
_It's all the same._  
_It's all the same._  
_\- R.E.M._

  


It was nearly midnight when Miroku heard the front door slide open and shut again, the waxed door tracks quiet enough that the noise failed to rouse the children.  

From his writing-desk, he could see all three of them sleeping soundly, the the twin girls Sayuri and Kaori splayed out on their backs, and their younger brother Yoshihiro curled up beside them.  They’d never been separated from their mother for this long before, and he was proud of how well they managed. While the first day had no lack of tears, the remainder of the week was much easier, with the girls deciding to make the best of it by critiquing every aspect of their father’s clear domestic inadequacy.  It made no difference that he and Sango shared chores of cooking and cleaning; his children countered that their father was capable of these tasks only under their mother’s strict supervision. Sayuri set the tone the morning after Sango’s departure, stirring the miso soup with a finger and picking out a single cube of tofu, waving it before Miroku’s nose so that he could see it was clearly much narrower in one dimension than the other two.  Sango, meticulous in every aspect, would never have dared serve her children a cube of tofu that was not perfectly square. Sayuri ate it anyway, of course, but her protest was duly noted. The ruler that normally resided in his writing-desk had spent the remainder of the week in the kitchen.

Miroku did his best to explain this was an unfair standard.  He told them the story of their kitchen knives, how he and Sango had gone to a bazaar when the twins were still in her belly, and how she found the knife-sellers’ wares wanting.  How she had instead sweet-talked the village blacksmith, selected a few ingots from his waste pile, and forged a set of kitchen knives with techniques more suited to sword-making.  The children were too young to discuss household finances, of course, so he did not explain that they lived comfortably, in part, due to Sango selling these techniques to this blacksmith, so as to provide for her children.

They were expecting Sango the following morning, and had spent the that same entire day scrubbing the house from floor to ceiling.  The girls had put particular attention to the floor, running back and forth along the wood with polishing rags, to the point he could see the floorboards shining even under the dull light of the oil-lamp at his desk.

He put away his brush and ink, and blotted the line he had been working on, setting his things aside for the evening.  He stood, and carried the oil-lamp with him around the partition to the _genkan_.  

“Sango,” he said quietly.  “Welcome home.”

The lamp cast shadows throughout the entryway, only barely illuminating the six-foot-tall boomerang leaning against the outer wall, the travel bag beside it, and the woman sitting motionless on the raised floor, her feet dangling inches over the dirt floor beneath.  

The fact she had arrived at this late hour was already concerning, and his worries intensified as he realized she was wearing her taijiya uniform and not her traveling clothes.  Arriving so late would indicate eagerness to come home, to see him, and their children, but he did not see this eagerness in her posture. The fact she still wore her battle dress was even more unsettling.  It was Sango’s nature to change clothes, and bathe if necessary, after battle. She kept to a ritual of physical and emotional cleansing that she found all the more important as a mother, so as to ensure she never soiled her children with the residue of demon extermination.

He set his jaw as he came closer, and illuminated his wife fully with the lamp, knowing full well he would not like what he saw.  She was a wreck. Mud and youkai-blood stained her arms and legs. Scratches ran across her cheeks. Her hair was matted and tangled.  Her eyes distant. Fear gripped his heart.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gesturing to herself, and around her, with her hands.  He understood immediately. The house was soiled. The place their children slept was soiled.  This was fixable; he was, after all, a priest, and a ritual cleansing would take no time at all.  Rings of sealing-scrolls around the outer perimeter of the village, and the inner perimeter of the village, the fence around their home, and the house itself, had all failed to alert him, which was proof enough that all the demonic material clinging to Sango’s clothing was well and truly dead, and the force that moved Sango’s limbs was Sango herself.  

He and Sango had spoken, at length, of what to do if she came home and wasn’t herself.  What actions Miroku must take, without hesitation, if she should act oddly. That the children were all that mattered.  That Miroku’s conscience would be clear if he struck her, subdued her, restrained her, even _killed her_ , if he thought even for a moment that the thing before him was not his wife, but a creature wearing her skin, who dared set foot in the place where their children slept.  But he knew that was not the case tonight. What was before him was his wife, indeed, pained and broken, but inescapably Sango.

Still, Sango had done something she’d never done before.  She’d brought her work home. The children had seen her wear the taijiya uniform during training, but never post-battle.

“It’s all right,” he said.  “I’ll prepare a bath. Leave your armor here and I’ll wash everything before the children wake.”

She nodded.

He left the oil-lamp in the entryway, and by feel and moonlight through gaps in the window-shutters, sought the cold-water cistern and the still-hot kettle from the embers of the cookfire.  He’d left the wash-buckets and towels out, in anticipation of Sango arriving very early in the morning; not having to dig these out of the cabinets helped ensure his movements didn’t produce enough noise to rouse the children.  He felt his age very severely as he picked up the meter-wide wash basin and stifled a grunt, feeling the weight of the wood and steel bands as he carried, rather than dragged, the bath from its storage place to a spot near the entryway, and in so doing learned about muscle groups he clearly used very rarely.  He caught his breath, and looked over the children, making sure he hadn’t awakened them, and proceeded to glance over at the pile of innocence some four meters away as he arranged buckets and pails and the ever-precious basket of Kagome soaps and Kagome shampoos.

Satisfied things were in order, and that the children still slept, he quietly padded back to the entryway.

Sango’s boots lay defeated on the other side of the entryway, as if she’d kicked them off, but other than her bare feet swinging off the raised floor, she was no less dressed than when he’d left her.  Her expression was blank, and he knew from experience the hours of travel from the battlefield to their home had failed to clear her head. She was still in that space, post-battle, mid-battle, pre-battle, re-living the event, critiquing and criticizing her actions.  When done, she would have committed to memory a string of movements that would have led to a flawless victory, and this would become a new training form that she would practice over and over again.

He knew better than to ask about the particulars of the fight.  Safer by far to probe around it, to question the periphery.

“Inuyasha,” he said.  Both a question and an accusation.

“He did well,” she replied.  “ _Too_ well.  I was the one who made him hold back.  It’s all my fault he wasn’t there in time.  Don’t blame him.”

“All right,” said Miroku.  

It was a Zen practice to imagine all possibilities, to see them through, to predict one’s emotional response.  One cannot be surprised by something one has already imagined before, and dealt with. So Miroku cannot be angry at Inuyasha for failing to protect his wife, for letting her be bruised and beaten, for letting her come home like something lost and ashamed.  He cannot be angry at Inuyasha because he had already imagined this event, months before Sango had even left for this battle, and let the rage swell up and subside, let the anger had fade away to grudging understanding. Inuyasha could not have stopped this.  Sango had to prove to herself she was still in fighting trim. Neither he nor Inuyasha could have avoided the consequences.

“He followed me the whole way home,” she added.  She still stared ahead. Still refused to meet his eyes.  “Demanded I stop and rest. Demanded I clean up, so no one in the village would see me like this.  I told him to go to hell. Told him I hated him. Told him he distracted me on the battlefield, and that’s why I got my ass kicked.”  She sucked in a breath, her eyes watery. “I blamed him. I told him to stay far back, and let me prove myself. And I failed. I’m not the same woman I was five years ago, Miroku.  I’m slow and weak and fat.”

“Stop that,” he hissed.

He was a good listener, but there were _limits_.  She turned to him, and saw the rage in his face.  There were very few instances where he’d put his foot down in their marriage, but this was one of them. No one may speak ill of his wife.  Ever. Even Sango was not exempt from his rule.

“Than before,” she amended.  “Maybe you can’t tell. Maybe no one can.  But I can tell.”

He said nothing, offering no agreement or acceptance.  He was thankful at least that Sango would blunt this insult into what might be an observation, no matter how incorrect.  He knew every inch of Sango’s body, every curve, every dimple, every freckle and goosebump. She was perfect when he proposed to her five years and three children ago, and she was perfect now.  

Moments passed, with his hand on her knee, squeezing, reassuring.

“I fell,” she said.  “I fell and I thought of you.  And our children. And how stupid I was.  In that moment, I was a taijiya, more than I ever was, in my entire life.  A proud warrior, laying down her life for her clan. And I thought, when the club came down to bash my brains in, how stupid I was.  How I wanted to be a mother again. To be a wife. How I’d trade everything for that. How I’d give up everything in the world for _this_ moment, right now.  To be here, with you.  To have a home with a man I love.  To have our children sleeping beside us.  To live another day. To have my children know me.”

She paused, breathed deeply, a shiver passing through her.

“I barely knew my mother,” she said.  “Kohaku didn’t know her at all. How could I put Sayuri and Kaori through that?  Even Yoshihiro is old enough to notice the loss, I think.”

He brushed her cheek.

“Sango, I know all this.  I don’t know how I’d accomplish it, but I wouldn’t let you leave this house if I thought you were taking unnecessary risks, and I know you’d do the same for me.  We’re living for our children now, and we won’t let each other forget that.”

She processed this, nodding slowly.  Moments passed. Sango kicked at the air of the entryway.

“When I came to,” said Sango, “Inuyasha was there.  He stood before me, his sword on his shoulder, the dead demons all around … the expression on his face … I can’t forgive it.”

Her fists clenched, her jaw set, her mouth sucking her lower lip and biting between her teeth.

“I expected him to laugh,” she said.  “Tell me how out of shape I was. Tell me I’m an old woman now.  But he didn’t do that. Didn’t bust my chops, like we normally do with each other.  His face was all concern. Fear, almost. He asked if I was okay. Over and over. Tried to get me to a doctor, and then to an inn, and then home, on his back.  I refused. I sent him home, to Kagome. Told me I’d walk, no matter how far, no matter how long. And I did. And I thought over everything I was going to do when I came home, including the conversation we’re having right now.  And all the while, I sensed him. Behind me and before me. All day and all night, even to the very moment I came to the door of our home, I don’t think Inuyasha was ever more than a hundred meters from me.”

She shook her head.

“I can’t even imagine what he’s told Kagome.  The last thing I need is for her to worry about me.”

“I doubt he’s told her anything yet,” he offered.  “Otherwise, Kagome would be at our door already, arms full of bandages and medicine.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right.  Augh, my arms are all stiff. Help me with my armor, will you?”

He came closer, found the ties under each shoulder, and proceeded to unfasten her shoulder pads and elbow pads, setting the lacquered plates aside.  He hesitated at her waist, brushing his hand from the small of her back and around her hip, so she’d have plenty of warning before he touched her wakizashi, as her sword was hers alone to handle, but she made no move to discourage him, and he slid this out of her sash.  Likewise, in slow movements, he unfastened her sash, and removed the armor plates at her waist, leaving Sango clad only in her black under-armor.

With her armor set aside, in a pile he’d need to cleanse, physically and spiritually, he wasn’t sure what else to do.  He grasped her shoulders with his hands, trying his best to reassure his wife while asking her for guidance. _I don’t know how to help you.  Tell me how to help you._

She drew in a heavy breath, exhaled, and placed her left hand on his, her thumb brushing over the knuckles.

“Tell me I’m good,” she said.

“Sango …”

“I’m not the best, I know.  I can’t fight as hard as Inuyasha.  I can’t love as deeply as Kagome. And I’m worried that being a taijiya and a mother just means I’m doing both jobs poorly.   But I try, and I hope it’s enough…”

He moved without thinking, one arm over her shoulders, another over her waist, pulling her into his lap, pulling her close, heedless of the dirt and demon-blood smearing his sleeping-robe, wanting only the one thing he always wants, every hour of every day, to hold her, to keep her to never let her go.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice breaking.  “I’m being ridiculous, I know.”

“You’re better than good, Sango,” he whispered into her ear.  “You’re perfect. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.  Every hour of every day I’m reminded how much better my life is because you’re in it.”

“Miroku…”

“Being a taijiya and a wife and a mother makes you stronger at all these tasks, don’t you realize?  Ever since I’ve known you, your spirit has always been that beautiful balance of hardness and softness, cold determination and warm compassion.  It hurts my heart to think you don’t realize the extent of your strength.”

His mouth found bare skin beneath her right ear, and lay a soft kiss there.  She tensed in his arms, then relaxed, and this encouraged him to kiss her again, and again.

She spun around, gripping fistfuls of his shirt as she crushed her mouth to his, his lips bruising against hers.  Her tongue slipped between his teeth, and his body responded immediately. He gripped her waist, pulled her close.

It is nearly a full minute later when she pulls back, gasping, cheeks flushed.  The dull glare in her eyes is gone, washed away with apologetic anticipation.

“Sango,” he says; the lack of breath makes it all the easier to keep quiet.

She is blushing, glancing away.

“S-sorry,” she says.  “I don’t … I’m not sure what came over me…”

He took her hand, intertwined his fingers with hers.

“Joy of being alive?” he asked.  “Realization that you hold yourself to an impossible standard?  Or am I simply such a good kisser that I cause you to take leave of your senses?”  

She smirked.  “Perhaps all three.  Augh, sorry for all that.  I look like hell and smell like death, don’t I?  A bath and a night’s sleep should set me right again.”

“Of course.  You should go on, before it gets cold.”

She nodded, and laughed softly.

“What?” he asked.

She burned red.

“Nothing, just a silly thought.”

“Oh?  I quite enjoy those.”

“I just … we’ve been very creative lately.  And the children are asleep. And I if I didn’t look and smell like I’ve been recently trampled by, and defecated upon, by a cart-horse, I’d be tempted to point out we haven’t yet utilized the _genkan_ for, ah, marital purposes.”

He chuckled.

“Rest assured I’ve kept a very careful account of all the places in our home that have yet to be honored in that way.”

“Perhaps tomorrow then,” she said.

“Perhaps.”

She gasped as he gripped her hips and held her to him.

“S-seriousy?” she gasped.

“We spent all afternoon preparing for your arrival tomorrow morning,” he said.  “They haven’t stirred since I put them to bed. I’m sure they’ll sleep through the night.”

“But I’m filthy.  There’s no way I could … god, coming home to you like this.  I must smell awful. I should just take that bath … I should just clean up and go to bed.  I can’t -”

His hands grasp at her again, cradling her head as he pulls her closer for a kiss, deep and delving and desperate, and when he releases her she is gasping and bleary-eyed.

“I’m yours,” he says to her.  “Use me as you will. Just give me a command.  I am your loyal servant, your kitchen-maid, your bath-assistant, and anything else you need.”

Her eyes flicked bath and forth, her fingers drumming his shoulders.

“Perhaps the Lady of the House requests something slightly more … _athletic_?” he proffered.

“Stop … stop joking,” she said.  “You don’t really … ah, god…”

She leaned in, pressed her head to his shoulder.

“Ah, god, you smell good,” she whispered. “Damn it. This … this is your own fault.”

Her fingers unfastened the ties to his shirt, her lips traveling down the exposed skin of his chest.  

“Sango?”

“Don’t deny me,” she said.  “Not tonight.”

Her eyes met his, a flash of fire in them.  Her kisses continued down his stomach, her fingers tracing the contours of his abdomen.  He barely breathed as she puled aside his loincloth, took him in her hands, her mouth. In an instant he is hard, achingly hard, and she slid up his body again.

He groaned as he watched her untie her leggings, slip them to her knees.  Their eyes are locked as she lowers herself onto him, claims him, consumes him, takes him inside herself.

“G-god,” he gasped.

She is fire in his hands, liquid, undulating, rhythm and chaos, light and heat.

Her lips crashed upon his, taking breaks only to nip at his jawline and neck, her movements too fast and too unpredictable for him to return the gestures.  She leaned into him, pressing him hard against the wall.

He reaches for her, one hand on her backside, another on her pelvis, fingers slipping through the dark curls, finding the spot of her that he knows so very well, reveling in the desperate whine that slips through her teeth as she touches her and finds her rhythm.

Their foreheads are pressed together, their eyes on each others’ when they come, and they allow themselves only a minute or two before Sango kisses his cheek and gets to her bath.

The children slept through the night, though all three wrinkle their noses when Sango leaned close and kissed them goodnight, just before she slid into the sleeping pallet beside them, and Miroku wrapped arms around her.

In the morning, the twins awoke, ecstatic to find their mother home already, and in the distraction, Miroku found the ruler in the kitchen and carefully slipped it into his sleeve.  

  


_I was central_  
_I had control_  
_I lost my head_  
_I need this_  
_I need this_  
_\- R.E.M._

 


End file.
